by Heidi Rice
“So, counselor,’ she said. “Is it normal for you to be so talkative after sex?”
The wry comment, delivered in that snooty British accent had a smile cracking the rigid line of his lips.
“I’m sorry I messed up all your hard work,” he said.
It must have taken her the better part of the day to get the place as spotless as she had, and he’d behaved like a total dick about that, too. Probably because he’d been so pissed about the shot of delighted lust that had seared him when she stepped out of his bedroom wearing nothing but that butt-hugging T-shirt.
“Are you? I’m not the least bit sorry,” she replied, her gaze dipping to his waist.
The unlikely blush crawled across his collarbone like a Virginia Creeper.
He looked away. Out onto the dock. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered to close the drapes. Mr. G could have walked past on his way to the trash receptacle and caught them banging each other senseless on the couch.
He walked over to close the drapes, then turned back to Zelda, her naked body now spotlighted by the sunlight shining through the side windows.
“I should also apologize for jumping you like that,” he added. “I don’t usually treat women with so little respect.” The apology felt pretty hollow, seeing as he wasn’t sure he regretted what he’d done. So, basically, he was guilty not just of balling a woman he barely knew but also guilty of lying about whether he felt sorry about it or not. If he ever got to Father O’Riley’s confessional again in this lifetime, he’d have to say a few thousand extra Hail Marys.
“I’m not sorry about that either,” she declared. “I enjoyed it immensely.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him. “How fascinating, you’re blushing.”
The heat scalded the back of his neck, horrifying him a little more.
“Is that Catholic guilt?” she said. “I always wondered what it looked like when they tried to drum it into me at St. J’s?” A wicked smile hovered, telling him she was having a heck of a lot of fun at his expense. “But really, you don’t need to feel guilty. I don’t. When it comes to respect, I’m all for respecting the restorative qualities of good, hard sweaty sex. Clearly we both needed a good shag. And as God in his infinite wisdom made you so shaggable, I considered it my divine duty to jump you at the first opportunity.”
Had she jumped him? He was pretty sure he’d jumped her. But now he wasn’t so sure.
“And as for showing respect for me as a woman,” she continued. “I think you and your phenomenal cock both excelled yourself.”
Damn but the woman was as badass as she was beautiful. A laugh choked out at the outrageous statement, as his admiration for her increased. “Good to know.”
“Isn’t it though,” she said, the cheeky grin on her face easing his guilty conscience considerably as she got up from the bunk.
“You want to grab the first shower?” He gestured to the bathroom, not quite able to take his eyes off her, even though he knew he should if he wanted to exert some semblance of control over the new erection pressing against the front of his pants. “I can clear this mess up and then dig out another …” He coughed judiciously… “Minidress for you?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
His gaze got momentarily fixated on those cherry ripe nipples bouncing enticingly as she strolled towards him. He jerked his gaze back to her face trying not to behave like a teenage boy who’d just scored his first copy of Playboy. Or paid for his first chance to see what the opposite sex had on their chests.
Unlike what he could remember of Mary Jane, Zelda wasn’t all that well-endowed, her breasts small and firm in keeping with that long slender frame. But he knew more than a couple of journalists had written sonnets to that rack when she’d posed topless for some arty Vanity Fair cover a few years back.
The thought of her fame, and her wild reputation, went some way to dousing the fire igniting his pants. But not much. He could hardly claim to be the poster boy for mature and sensible behavior after the last twenty minutes.
“I’ll get dressed again on one condition?” Drawing level with him, she cradled his jaw.
Her thumbnail scraped through the whiskers on his chin. The five o’clock shadow prickled, sending shivers of awareness zinging down his spine. And straight into his nuts.
“Which is?” He cocked an eyebrow. Not really sure he wanted her clothed, but knowing he’d never get anything done if he didn’t agree to her terms.
“You promise to let me rustle up a replacement supper. You look washed out and I consider that my fault.”
He rested his hand on her waist, forcing himself not to let it slide down and cup one of her delicious butt cheeks. “I’m a big boy. One bout of hot sweaty sex isn’t going to kill me.” I hope.
“Actually I was talking about last night and that two o’clock wake up call,” she said, pricking his conscience again—because he knew for sure he didn’t deserve her sympathy after his dickish behavior then too.
“I certainly hope you’re not exhausted from the sex,” she added. “Because I may demand another round, once you’re sufficiently recuperated to appreciate it.”
He chuckled, the audaciousness of the comment as saucy as the defiance in her eyes. Jesus but the woman was a ball buster. Why did that only make her more irresistible? “Don’t tempt me. My resistance is pretty low at the moment.”
“Even better,” she said. “Because I have a favor to ask you.”
“Okay,” he said, intrigued.
Was it wrong to hope her favor might involve another round of hot sweaty sex? Probably. Definitely. “You better go grab that shower first.” He gave her naked rump a playful slap, any last lingering strains of Catholic guilt now officially toast. “So I can get to work on this mess.”
“Don’t push your luck, Galahad.” She shot him an outraged look, delighting him even more. “Or I might have to lop it off.” She threw the remark over her shoulder as she sashayed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
And God help him, he laughed.
*
“So, fire away.”
Zelda looked up from her plate to find Ty watching her in that focused, intense way that made her feel like a witness about to be cross-examined. She’d been catching him doing it all evening—while he cleared up the mess and she made a new selection of dishes from the supplies she’d stocked in the fridge—and she still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Or him.
And that was starting to bother her, because she usually found men transparent and easy to read, especially after she’d slept with them.
Tyrone Sullivan, though, had surprised her.
She’d expected the heat, but not the forthright apology afterwards. Because when had any man ever been concerned about showing her the proper respect, especially when it came to hot sex? What surprised her most of all though, was the approval in his eyes now, because it didn’t seem to be only about the hot sex.
“Fire away about what?” she asked, at a disadvantage. Again.
His wide shoulders in the plain, white T-shirt made the chair creak as he tilted it back. He lifted the bottle of Sam Adams he’d retrieved from the fridge. “What’s your favor?” he prompted.
Oh yes, that.
Her gaze tracked to his mouth, as he touched the neck of the bottle to his lips and took a long draught. It had been a while since she’d felt the tiny trickle of saliva in the back of her throat, a signal of the yearning to take a sip of the cold, yeasty brew—but it passed quickly. The prickle of anxiety, at the thought that he might say no to her request, wasn’t quite so easily controlled.
No need to get her knickers in a knot. She had other options—just maybe not any as intriguing as the thought of spending a few days on Ty Sullivan’s house barge. The unfortunate thought that she was now more interested in discovering a bit more about the unknowable and unschmoozable Mr. Sullivan—and his ripped body—than she was in avoiding the press didn’t do much for her anxiety levels.
“I was wondering if you�
��d be interested in letting me camp out here for a few days?”
He tipped the chair forward, the front legs smacking the floor.
She held up her hand. “And before you get entirely the wrong end of the stick. This request has nothing whatsoever to do with our impromptu bonk. That was spontaneous and unplanned and is unlikely to be repeated.” She had to admit she wasn’t entirely convinced by that last bit, but she wanted him to realize that sex wasn’t an issue. Well, not for her anyway.
“How long do you want to stay?” he asked, his voice even, if a little strained.
Okay, so that wasn’t an instant no.
“I don’t know, probably just the holiday weekend. Until the news that I skipped out on that charity gig last night is forgotten. I’ve spoken to Seb’s housekeeper and there’s several paparazzi camped out at the Mausoleum,” she said, using the term she’d used for her family’s twenty-five room townhouse on the Upper East Side. “But really, I’m not that big a deal, they’ll probably lose interest in a day or two and I can go back to the house. Me being irresponsible is an old story.”
Speculation about her private life followed a familiar theme and surely couldn’t sustain more than one or two tabloid headlines. She’d never apprised the press of her sobriety, so any and all willful behavior had been written into the whole Zelda Is Off the Rails Again scenario. She considered that collateral damage, and was prepared to weather the odd misinformed headline rather than put her sobriety under constant scrutiny. But if they got hold of her citation for disorderly conduct on Manhattan Beach at midnight, she’d find herself in the midst of a media circus which was more hassle than she needed at the moment. Especially with her brother, who’d been his usual austere, autocratic, and distant self ever since she’d arrived in New York several months ago.
Her stomach muscles twisted at the thought of Seb’s reaction to her latest faux pas. He could be a total beast about it if he was getting door-stepped by the paparazzi, so laying low in Brooklyn until the storm blew over made sense.
The only problem was, now she’d made wild passionate love to Ty Sullivan on his couch, she’d complicated what should have been a simple request.
Shame she hadn’t considered that while wrapping feverish fingers round his phenomenally gifted cock.
“What charity gig?” Ty asked.
“I was scheduled to appear at the Madison Foundation benefit on Thursday night at the Guggenheim for …” She paused, struggling to recall what the two-thousand-dollar a plate gala supper the foundation had organized had actually been in aid of. “Some very worthy cause.”
“So worthy you can’t remember it?” The question didn’t sound particularly judgmental, but it didn’t sound particularly complimentary either.
“I don’t pick the causes, the foundation’s management team does.”
“Obviously it’s a cause close to your heart,” he said. Was he teasing her? Because the quizzical expression on his face was hard to read.
“It doesn’t have to be close to my heart for me to contribute to it,” she said, hating herself for the defensiveness.
“I guess not,” he said.
“I’m not asking for your opinion on my integrity.” She plopped her fork down on the table, hating the fact that he was right—she hadn’t given a lot of thought to how the charity she couldn’t remember might be affected by her disappearing act. “What I’m asking for is a place to stay for a couple of days,” she continued, deciding she would make a hefty donation to the charity—whatever it was—when she got back to Manhattan. “If the answer’s no, just say so—you can save the lecture, I’ve heard it before.”
Which made it all the more unsettling that his opinion of her could still sting. A little.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, yes, you can hang here until the press loses interest.”
“Really?” she said, then immediately wanted to kick herself for sounding so pleased.
Play it cool, Zel.
“You’re sure you want to risk it?” she added. “My lack of integrity might be infectious?”
His mouth tugged up on one side, giving her another glimpse of that boyish grin which had blindsided her earlier. Its effect was still potent.
“My integrity’s pretty robust. But …” The grin disappeared. “There’s not a lot of space on this barge and…” His gaze flicked to the couch. “Given what already happened, we should probably get a couple of things straight.”
She smiled, his sober expression ridiculously endearing. No doubt about it, Ty Sullivan was even cuter when he was being noble.
“What things?” she asked.
But she figured she already knew. Faith’s big brother was the model citizen, knight-in-shining-designer-suit type, who’d probably never done anything irresponsible before in his entire life. And he was clearly still a little shocked by their no-holds-barred sex-capade on the couch.
“Just so there’s no confusion about…” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “About why you’re hanging here. It makes sense for us to keep the sleeping arrangements the same as last night.” He cleared his throat.
It took her a moment to realize what he was getting at. And while she could have gotten mad that he would assume she would want to share his bed, she somehow knew that hadn’t been his intention at all. Ty Sullivan was hopelessly gallant. And he just wanted to make sure she didn’t feel awkward. Or compromised.
That he should be prepared to protect her honor felt oddly humbling, especially as she knew she didn’t actually have any honor to protect.
“Absolutely. I’m glad we cleared that up,” she said trying hard not to smile at his discomfort.
Maybe he was also worried that she might misconstrue their impromptu bonk as the start of something more?
No doubt a guy who looked like he did, who was as smart, sincere, and upstanding as he was, had a solvent career, a very nice house barge plus those magic fingers and such a gifted cock, had to fend off eligible women all the time. What he didn’t know was that she had no desire to catch any guy. And she would never be eligible, not in any permanent sense. Because she’d never been naïve enough to believe in Happy Ever Afters—and fighting her demons would always be a full time job.
“Okay, good.” He lifted her hand off the table and rubbed his thumb across the back. “So I guess that means we should lay off the hot sex? So we don’t confuse stuff.”
He sounded unsure, which she took as a very good sign.
“If you say so.” She tugged her hand out of his, deciding now might not be the best time to tell him she’d never found anything confusing about hot sex.
“I need to crash.” He stood, the weariness in his stance very apparent. “Leave the dishes, I’ll handle them tomorrow.”
“Crash away.” She stood to stack their dirty dishes. “And I’ll handle the dishes. While I never offer hot sex for room and board, I can offer excellent services as a chief cook and bottle washer.”
“Cool, thanks.” He paused. “I’m gonna take the bed in back. I’d offer to let you have it.” He glanced at the bunk and screwed up his face in a comical look of distaste. “But the couch is kind of snug when you’re six-two. And I’m not that much of a gentleman.”
“No problem. I’m grateful for the couch. And it fits me fine.”
“Great, well, thanks for supper.” He let his gaze roam over the living area which was back to its pristine state after their food war. “And for cleaning up the place. I should have said that before.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for…” He shook his head, his mouth doing that half-smile again that had her insides heating. “Forget it; I’m not thanking you for that.”
“There’s no need. It was my pleasure.”
His gaze drifted to her lips and she felt the energy and awareness pulse between them.
“Cool,” he said again. “I’ll see you in the morning. If I wake up before noon.”
“Sleep as
long as you like. I’ll probably head to the mall. I need some new clothes for the duration.” She lifted her arms. “I can’t spend the whole weekend in your T-shirts.”
“I guess not,” he said, but she detected the definite hint of regret.
As he closed the bedroom door, it occurred to her he’d lied.
He was very much a gentleman.
Gallant enough to make her almost wish she could be a damsel in distress. Instead of the Evil Queen, who was already contemplating how much fun she could have tarnishing Ty Sullivan’s armor.
Because, frankly, what else were Labor Day weekends for? But to unwind and de-stress… And get as much hot sex as you could. When no strings need be attached?
Chapter Six
‡
Ty emerged from the bedroom at a quarter after noon, to the sight of his new houseguest happily laying out sandwich fillings on the kitchen counter, her hips bumping and grinding in time to the low hum of an old soul classic on the radio.
He scrubbed his hands through his hair and over the rough scrape of the scruff on his chin. He felt like a bear just out of hibernation. And probably looked worse.
She must have gotten to the mall and back while he’d been comatose.
In a pair of Converse pumps, sunshine yellow three-quarter length pants and a bright blue T, she looked young, fresh, and cute. Add to that the sassy cap of hair and her clear skin devoid of makeup and she was rocking “sexy tomboy” this morning. The woman, he was beginning to realize, was something of a chameleon with a look to suit every occasion. On the last day of summer, young and super cute worked.
The dull ache in his crotch, which had accompanied a stream of erotic dreams during the night, agreed.
The aroma of fresh coffee had his stomach rumbling. He needed his first slug of the day, like now. He leaned past her to lift the coffee pot off the hot plate and her head jerked up.
Turning down the radio, she smiled. “Hi, I hope I didn’t wake you?”
“You didn’t.” He got a whiff of her scent—sultry sin overlaid with summer flowers. “I needed to get my ass out of bed before I became part of the damn thing.” He poured himself a mug, took a long gulp of the hot liquid, and sighed. “That’s an awesome cup of coffee.”